Deanna Raybourn

Older women often feel invisible, but sometimes that’s their secret weapon.
 
They’ve spent their lives as the deadliest assassins in a clandestine international organization, but now that they're sixty years old, four women friends can’t just retire – it’s kill or be killed in this action-packed thriller by New York Times bestselling and Edgar Award-nominated author Deanna Raybourn.

Billie, Mary Alice, Helen, and Natalie have worked for the Museum, an elite network of assassins, for forty years. Now their talents are considered old-school and no one appreciates what they have to offer in an age that relies more on technology than people skills.
 
When the foursome is sent on an all-expenses paid vacation to mark their retirement, they are targeted by one of their own. Only the Board, the top-level members of the Museum, can order the termination of field agents, and the women realize they’ve been marked for death.
 
Now to get out alive they have to turn against their own organization, relying on experience and each other to get the job done, knowing that working together is the secret to their survival. They’re about to teach the Board what it really means to be a woman—and a killer—of a certain age.

Killers of a Certain Age

Megan BV

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Some of the dates are misleading; some of the names are lies. I’m not trying to protect the innocent. I’m trying to protect the guilty. You’ll understand soon enough.

He shook his head and put out a hand to grip my arm. “You’re just panicking because you’re scared,” he said in what he probably thought was a soothing tone. “Now, come with me.” 

“I don’t have time for this patriarchal bullshit,” I said, whipping out a right cross that caught him on the sweet spot just below his ear.

I love the writing in this book. Everything feels out of the ordinary yet relatable all at once. 

I was halfway into a pair of cashmere joggers when I changed my mind and reached for my jeans instead. The joggers were featherlight and warm as toast, but the jeans made me feel like I hadn’t quite given up yet.

That sums up a lot of books out there and I'm here for it. 

Leonie

A book fell out, a worn paperback written by a man who was in love with guns and his own penis and probably not in that order.

“That’s the point,” she said. “I think I am. At least I want to be. I am so sick and tired of waking up feeling like someone tore off one of my limbs. Every morning, for just a few seconds, I forget. I wake up and it hasn’t happened yet. There’s nothing but emptiness and calm. And then it comes crashing down and I hate it. I hate it so much.”

I relate to this a lot more than I’d like to admit.

Afterwards, I did yoga, stretching out my sore knees and screaming a little inside when my downward-facing dog came out more like a junkyard mutt.

Most people grasp a weapon until their knuckles turn white, but that just tires out your hand. Like playing piano or giving a good hand job, it’s all in the wrist.

Hold on... is that an european thing? 😲

I addressed the envelope, careful to cross the seven in his room number like a proper little European.

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